220th miracle is.... weasel poo

211

A trug of frozen apples, hard as

Quartz pebbles, catch the light

Crystal-coated, wondrous, paled

Palm-sized apple plunder

212

The orchard apples drop to grass

Are gathered up by tub and carted

To the freezer, frozen up, hauled out

To defrost, squash, ferment

213

First light halos the demi-johns

On the dining table. Tints of

Translucent yellow, tones of

Red from rose to ruby

214

Another resurrection

Of an ordinary day the light

Ascending through the morning

Colour gradient

215

Malcontent to find myself

Awake so early, until

I draw the old velvet curtains

On this panoramic anomaly

216

The valley is flooded with mist

The moors appear as a series

Of Caribbean pirate islands

Not where I expected to wake

217

This view opens my frown, it

Nudges acknowledgement, I am

Laughing at myself, at my quick

Mood-skip

218

My decision is to make coffee

And sit, watching the colours

Change, outside, the pink

Underbelly of mackerel cloud

219

Somewhere in the fridge is a tin

Of coffee. This week we are drinking

Vietnamese Weasel. I picture the sacks

Of beans on the quayside in a monsoon wind

220

Maybe this started as a practical joke

But whoever ground up the beans from

The weasel’s poo was on to a good thing

Although the flavour in my cup is synthesised